Flash Fiction: Falling #121 by Ryan Van Winkle

Poem from Edinburgh-based writer

Falling #121

by Ryan Van Winkle

Winter and I cannot remember a single breakfast. All the problems have become snow: not the drinking nor the distance, it is the snow.It has been falling for months, gets ploughed to the side of the road,envelops the short Christmas days; sheathes her long nipples, the pond is useless, layered with froth. The snow has hidden the solutions,the consequences, the map.And in the dark it settles white,blows thin onto the porch where she sat for the sun.